


rosemary and amaranth

by TheMalacoda



Series: web of wyrd [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Inspired by Hades and Persephone (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Mutual Pining, Patch 5.3: Reflections in Crystal Spoilers, Pining, Randomness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27711533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalacoda/pseuds/TheMalacoda
Summary: A place for me to keep all of my random garbage. Ramblings, headcanons, stupid jokes, and AU bs I don't have the spoons to write a whole fic on will abound!Some of this will be cross-posted to Tumblr, but some of it won't--especially if ends up explicit because Tumblr. Relationships are tbd but ya'll know I am criminally thirsty so expect Exarch. Please read cw's at the beginning of each chapter cause otherwise the tags will get too wild. Don't expect frequent additions due to the nature of the beast."Table of Contents is Chapter 1 and I will try to keep it updated," she said confidently, knowing full well that she is a liar.Latest Chapter:2 | anabasis   [rated g]   [emet/hades x bard!fem!wol/azem/persephone]   [no warnings]She comes willingly to his new kingdom of the damned, but it is not possible for him to give her what she wants.A retelling of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice.
Relationships: Azem/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Original Character(s), G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Series: web of wyrd [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026814
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	1. table of contents

## TABLE OF CONTENTS

* * *

1 | G'raha Tia, ~~Substitute~~ Warrior of Light [rated g] [g'raha x exarch] [no warnings]

> Who is this Crystal Exarch anyway? And what does she want?

2 | anabasis [rated g] [emet/hades x bard!fem!wol/azem/persephone] [no warnings]

> She comes willingly to his new kingdom of the damned, but it is not possible for him to give her what she wants.
> 
> _A retelling of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice._


	2. G'raha Tia, Substitute Warrior of Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings here, just enjoy it!
> 
> If you feel like there should be a warning tho lmk!

The tower was vibrating wildly in the deepest parts of his brain but he just couldn’t understand what it wanted. He was terribly out of practice at gleaning meaning from what were, in effect, blots of ink across the pages of his mind. The constant pressure would only give him a headache, certainly not a sudden burst of arcane knowledge.

A headache was the last thing he needed right now: he had been pulled through the Rift and the person responsible was speaking to him. The Crystal Exarch, she called herself; a small hooded figure in complicated robes with an arm of blue crystal and an air of mystery. 

He needed to focus on her words, but the tower would not stop reverberating between his ears. For nearly two years the tower had asked nothing of him, its only desire having been satisfied when the doors were sealed. But now. Now… It needed him to know something, desperately. Something important about this place--something the Exarch was hiding. 

But it was akin to hearing an argument in another room--muffled thumps and shouting, completely indecipherable except for tone. The images it was showing him were no more helpful, like being ilms away from an impressionist painting; staring at brightly colored daubs on canvas and totally unable to perceive the larger image due to an incorrect perspective.

Frustrating, yes, but he would get to the heart of the matter sooner or later. He was not G’raha Tia, Student of Baldesion, Archon, Historian, Last Prince of Allag, and ~~Substitute~~ Warrior of Light for nothing. 

“Clever, eccentric, stubborn as an aurochs arse and twice as ugly,” as Krile was fond of saying.

He kneels as she finishes giving him a tour, filing away his irritation at the tower and himself for later examination, “My lady, I thank you for your hospitality and the opportunity to learn more of your people and this place… but I would beg a boon. If I may?”

The hood inclines in assent, but she remains silent.

“When you brought the tower to the First was there someone sealed inside? A woman, by the name of Stelmaria Meioh. We had been close…. before… and I have not seen her for two years.”

Two years.

Two years since he had last paid the tower any real heed, most of the intervening moons being spent in service to the Scions of the Seventh Dawn by gallivanting hither and thither across the whole of Hydaelyn. 

Two long years of liberating nations, striking decisive blows at empires, and felling gods with the sliver of power the tower allowed him to use even as it slept--a reasonable facsimile of the blessing of light. At least until the Mothercrystal had seen fit to bless him with the real thing a little more than a year past.

Two years since his lover, the Scion’s previous champion, had chosen to seal herself inside Syrcus Tower on his behalf. The very same tower that now stood at the center of this city: an alien city on an alien shard where the sun never sank below the horizon. 

Her sacrifice still pained him, partially because she had stolen an opportunity that was his by rights and partially because there had been an unspoken thread between them, an unexplored territory. When she left him, he decided that it should remain a mystery: he would allow no one else to come so close to unraveling the skein of his heart as she had.

The Exarch looks down at him from the shadows under her cowl, thinking, and the tower takes the opportunity to press on his mind again. He nearly clutches his head in pain, as he had done so long ago when both his eyes had become the red displayed by the bloodline of Allag, but he does not trust this woman enough to show such weakness. 

The searing in his skull reaches a crescendo when the stifling breeze shifts to carry her scent in his direction: along with the hot, dry air there is the unmistakable scent of orange blossoms, a hint of rosemary, and the suggestion of lavender. He feels completely untethered from reality, mind reeling even as the tower rejoices at his recognition and ceases tormenting him with its noise and pain. 

_Stelmaria, do you think me a fool? What in Azeyma’s name are you playing at?_

Finally, she opens her mouth to speak just as the inescapable certainty that the next words out of her will be a lie settle heavily in his gut like lead, “I am not familiar with that name. Is there something I should know?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you have a _thirst problem_? I and the lovely people over at [Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Book Club](https://discord.gg/u5YBNFn3SE) are here to tell you that it's not a problem, and we would love to support you in these trying times.  
>   
> Twitter: [@The_Malacoda](https://twitter.com/The_Malacoda)  
> Tumblr: [amor vincit omnia](https://themalacoda.tumblr.com/)


	3. anabasis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think there are any warnings here.
> 
> Just a little Greek Myth brainrot <3
> 
> Besides the myth itself, partly inspired by the song _Snakebit_ by Charming Disaster.

“A beautiful song, my Warrior, but surely you did not journey past uncounted dangers and untold sorrows all the way to this godsforsaken place simply to serenade me?” Emet-Selch intones, a sardonic twist to his lips accompanying a lazy gesture at the dramatically swooping skyline that looms behind his jagged throne of amaranthine crystals.

Experiencing the final death has not changed him in the slightest, though he no longer bothers to wear the guise of Solus zos Galvus. In hindsight, it was to be expected: nothing so mundane as death could ever alter one as vibrant as the Architect when he was in his element.

His element being of course, the land of shades--altered via his newfound powers to mimic the dead city of Amaurot. 

The lute hums a discordant note in her white-knuckled grip, her wide eyes finding his and holding them, fierce and fearless, “Leave with me, Emet. You deserve another chance to live and love.”

Zodiark’s tempering and an eternity in hell’s waiting room have left only a hardened stub of his heart, the softer edges worn away by the scouring sands of miserable solitude.

And still, still--horrible, dead, and tired thing that it is--it shudders, skipping a beat.

“You would have me leave my post? My kingdom? For what? A half-life amongst mortals that know only pain and fear and hate,” the venom in his veins and voice is not a dramatic affectation, for once.

The inexorable grind of the passing millenia have done nothing to quiet the first instinct that stirred within him at her words: he longs to please her, to grant her every desire, even when it flies in direct contradiction of everything he knows to be reality--he is Hades in truth and not just in name now. 

Architect of the underworld.

He cannot leave this place, not even for her; fate has separated them and separate is how they must remain.

“I have faith in you. Please,” she entreats again.

An unrepentant fool, he nods his assent only to be rewarded with instant regret, “I will follow behind you on your journey to the surface, but you must not look back--not even once. Should you turn, I will leave and you will not be able to return here until it is your fated time to do so. Do you agree to these terms?”

She nods, obviously optimistic. Obviously Azem.

Of a surety, she will fail at the last. She is a broken and sundered thing, a radiance dimmed to nearly nothingness, a shade even amongst shades--she simply does not possess the fortitude to pass the test he has set before her. Much too full of love and hope, far too trusting.

He motions carelessly to his hooded subordinates, who retreat from him, red masked faces bowed low in obeisance. A few long strides bring him within the pull of her gravity.

“Come my dear, unless you have already changed your mind? It is not too late to gracefully admit defeat and return unscathed from your little jaunt,” he teases.

Quiet, she turns away from him and begins to walk back along the path that brought her to the very seat of his power. It must be cold--there is gooseflesh on her arms--but she does not complain, nor does she entertain any of his many pithy observations about the state of his domain. He falls silent, thinking, the only sounds being the creak of her armor and the scuff of her boots in the dry dust of the dead.

In time, the ancient vistas and comfortable promenades of Amaurot give way to stalactites and stalagmites that shimmer wetly in her presence: the faint light radiating from her still living flesh entrancing every shade they pass. He cannot blame them, Azem has always been irresistible. In this cold and dreary place of death, she is as bold and beautiful as the very sun the living invoke in her worship.

Ahead, a weak and watery beam of sunlight dances just beyond the next turn of the rocky passage walls. The world of the living grows closer with every step.

So too, does his necessary betrayal. She cannot be allowed to thwart him this time, as much as he would enjoy letting her have her way. There were those that she could not save.

“Persephone--,” he says suddenly, knowing full well that she will instinctively turn back in answer to her true name falling from her lover’s lips.

She does. The hurt and accusation in her ancient eyes locks the pitiful husk of his heart in a painful vise, “Hades, you called out to me on purpose.”

He cannot lie to her, so he does not bother to deny it, “Yes.”

“You meant for me to fail, you arrogant bastard,” her words are thick with unshed tears.

“Yes, my dear,” it is only the truth, but it is bitter in his mouth, “Now we must part, but I will see you once more when you have had your allotment of life and love and warmth--and not one moment sooner.”

A snap of his fingers encloses her in tendrils of his power, the black and purple of a bruise, smothering any protests on her part. Another snap and the tendrils collapse in on themselves, disappearing, bearing her away to the waiting arms of Hythlodaeus in his newly spoken body, and her other comrades out in the world under the sun.

He will see her again, all souls come this way in their time. What fate has rent asunder now will not always remain separated. Mortal lives being as brief as they are, surely it will be no great burden to be patient a little longer for her destined return, for all of them to return. 

Only a little longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Do you have a _thirst problem_? I and the lovely people over at [Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Book Club](https://discord.gg/u5YBNFn3SE) are here to tell you that it's not a problem, and we would love to support you in these trying times.  
>   
> Twitter: [@The_Malacoda](https://twitter.com/The_Malacoda)  
> Tumblr: [amor vincit omnia](https://themalacoda.tumblr.com/)


End file.
